I hung up on him. I called James Huger on his private cell.
“Miss Talbot. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Huger, I take you for a romantic. Would I be right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Nate and I are getting married tomorrow.”
“Congratulations. I had no idea. I wish you both all the happiness Beatrice and I have found.”
I stumbled over that—couldn’t quite get the toys out of my mind. “Here’s the thing. Olivia Pearson has been arrested for Thurston Middleton’s murder.”
“Yes,” he said. “I heard about that. Utterly ridiculous, of course. I’m certain it will be straightened out very soon.”
“Olivia is one of my bridesmaids—one of my oldest friends. The wedding rehearsal starts at six p.m. this evening. I was wondering…do you perhaps know the solicitor?”
“In fact, I do. You would like me to expedite Olivia’s release on these frivolous charges?”
“Could you?”
“I believe I can.”
I took a deep breath. “It would mean so much to me. Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome. Call me any time, for any reason.”
My instincts were rarely wrong. They told me I could trust him, mostly because he was trusting me. “Mr. Huger?”
“Yes?”
“I’m almost certain it was Henry Prioleau. It might’ve been William Calhoun, but my money’s on Prioleau.”
“Do you have evidence against either of them?”
I shared with him my theory of the crime—the one I’d just shared with Sonny. I also told him about Victoria Baker.
“That is sad news, indeed,” he said.
“Of course, the autopsy hasn’t been done. There’s no proof it’s her. But…”
“But she’s unaccounted for.”
“That’s right.”
“Very well. I’ll see what I can do for Olivia and encourage the authorities to scrutinize Henry Prioleau and William Calhoun. As you know, Thurston was a close personal friend. I don’t believe for a second Olivia killed him, and I would consider it a privilege to play a small role in bringing his killer to justice.”
It was almost eleven o’clock. I could check on Miss Dean, catch the twelve-thirty ferry, and still be at Mamma’s by one. On the drive from West Ashley into Charleston, I called and updated Nate.
“Well done, Slugger. Are you on your way home?”
“As soon as I check on Miss Dean. And buy bridesmaids’ gifts.” Holy shit. “And pick up my dress.” How had I almost forgotten that?
“See you soon.”
I took a few deep breaths, then called Robert, who was frazzled but holding it together for the kids. I shared with him everything except my conversation with James Huger.
He said, “I’ll call Charlie Condon and give him all of this. He should be able to make a case for the solicitor that there’s a better suspect than Olivia.”
That would be perfect. Two powerful men lobbying for the same thing. “I’ll be praying hard on that,” I said. “With any luck, I’ll see you both tonight. I’m going to stop and check on Miss Dean before I head back.”
“Thanks, Liz. I know Olivia will appreciate that.”
I parked right in front of 12 Church Street. The door to the porch was unlocked. I walked up the steps and rang the bell.
William Calhoun opened the door, a satisfied smile on his face.
I stepped backwards. “Where is Miss Dean?”
Like an alligator snatching his dinner from the riverbank, he grabbed me, pulled me in the door, and slammed it closed.
I swung my tote at his head.
He ducked, grabbed my arm, turned me around.
He wrapped me in his arms from behind.
I threw one elbow punch before the handkerchief descended over my face.
Chloroform. I held my breath and stomped the top of his foot.
“Bitch.” He held the handkerchief tighter over my face.
The struggle left me winded. I had to breathe. My limbs went numb.
Blackness.
Twenty-Seven
When I woke, I was in a chair in the Hugers’ playroom over the garage, my hands cuffed behind the chair. My head pounded with a horrible migraine.
William sat on the sofa in the sitting area, directly across from me. He was going through my phone. My tote was beside him, my iPad on his lap. A picture frame also lay on the sofa, one of the five-by-sevens on the bedside tables in all the rooms. He’d come to get the photo of him with Amber, maybe other things that tied him to this place. He wouldn’t be worried about fingerprints. He had no arrest record I’d found. His prints weren’t on file anywhere. Why hadn’t the police taken that photo? Maybe they’d done the same thing I did and photographed it.